Page 52 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Her head spun. Her wits, she realized, had flown.

Not that she cared—not at that moment as warmth and a hunger she had never before felt yet instantly recognized flowered and unfurled within her.

This time, Rand held tight to their reins. This time, he’d braced for the potent lure of her response; he was determined to indulge both her and himself, yet still retain control.

He’d managed, more or less—passably at least—yet as the exchange spun out, kiss for kiss, and the lure of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, of the svelte, feminine body so vibrant and tempting in his arms only grew, and he sensed the rising tide of desire silently surging, he knew that with every second that passed, the inevitable drawing back would only be harder. More difficult—more of a wrench.

He had to end this, even though it went against the clamoring of his inner self. There was more than pleasure in this embrace; with no other woman had he found the sense of center—of being centered, of being whole and perfectly balanced—that he found in her arms.

She pressed against him, and his heart leapt, and his body hardened. He wanted her with a rapidly escalating passion—a passion that, until now, he’d endeavored to keep leashed.

If he didn’t end this…

His chest swelled as he drew in a steadying, fortifying breath. Clinging tight to his purpose, to what remained of his eroding will, he eased back from the kiss.

Inch by inch, lightening the pressure—releasing their senses to return to the world.

Felicia recognized his direction. In the same way she’d blithely followed his lead into the encounter, she accepted the necessity to follow him out of it.

Step by step, gently—accomplishing the inevitable drawing back without a hint of rejection on either part.

Without the slightest hint of anything other than wholehearted togetherness.

Even when their lips, at last, parted, they stood with their faces close, breathing the other’s breath, at close quarters, their gazes briefly touching from under lowered lids.

Finally, as if in orchestrated concert, they both drew deeper breaths, raised their heads, and, lowering their arms, drawing their hands from each other, stepped back.

The separation impinged, much as if she’d lost something she valued, then her wits cleared, and she focused on his face.

She took in the faintly smug smile that slowly curved his lips.

Not quite frowning, she moistened her lips and saw his eyes track the movement of her tongue. “What was that for?” She was suddenly very sure there had been some purpose that had prompted his sudden, unplanned action.

He raised his eyes to hers, then his smile softened. “That was to remind you that there’s more to working with me than cogs and gears and chasing saboteurs.”

“Indeed?” She arched her brows.

His smile deepened. Still holding her gaze, he raised one hand and lightly ran the back of one finger down her cheek…

She couldn’t quell a delicious shiver of reaction.

For a second, they both froze.

The moment held, fraught, the air between them charged, as if they stood on a precipice but couldn’t yet move.

His eyes on hers, he knew and sensed it, too. “Later.” He drew breath and lowered his hand. “After the project is completed and we’re free to think of only ourselves.”

With that, he inclined his head, then stepped back, turned, and walked away, leaving the room and heading toward the front hall.

Presumably back to the workshop.

Discovering she could, she drew in a long, deep breath and turned back to the peonies.

Very little thought was needed to conclude that he was correct. What with the engine, the exhibition, and would-be saboteurs, they had too much on their collective plate at the moment to think of other things.

Personal things.

Not that, all in all, they hadn’t just taken a step closer to what they both, quite clearly, desired in that sphere.